


a celebration of being alive

by ziskandra



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Difference, Broken Bones, F/M, Porn With Plot, Survivor Guilt, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/pseuds/ziskandra
Summary: Loghain thought Cousland deserved better than the attentions of a lecherous old man but she was the one who kept entering his tent.
Relationships: Female Cousland/Loghain Mac Tir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Trope Bingo: Round Sixteen, write to my heart





	a celebration of being alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the writetomyheart shiritori Dreamwidth community. My starter was "I have ... brought this story to its **conclusion**.' 
> 
> Also fills the 'rare pair' space on my prompt card for Trope Bingo - Round 16. 
> 
> An additional warning for sensitive subject matter which would spoil the story is contained in the end notes of this fic.

The conclusion Loghain had drawn in the aftermath of the Landsmeet had been simple: the Cousland girl had her own reasons for sparing his life.

It was only after the fifth time she entered his tent in the dead of the night that he was forced to fine-tune his prior assumptions. Yes, she’d clearly had her reasons. But they were not the ones he had been anticipating.

In the time they had now spent together in each other's company it had become crystal clear that the girl was not in dire need of an experienced military general. While he was yet to witness how she might handle an entire army, he was silently impressed by her commanding presence on the battlefield. It was no surprise that her companions would follow her to the Fade and back if she so required it, and he was even more astonished to find he was starting to feel the same way too. It had been a long time since he had experienced such devotion towards anyone, not since Maric.

 _Maric_. The thought of the former King never failed to make his chest ache. It helped to believe that none of this would have ever happened if Maric had still been with them. Loghain should have tried harder to find him. He should have ...

… There were many things he should have done, but all he could do now was lie in the bed he had made, both literally and figuratively.

The agreement that had occurred between them had been a mostly silent one. There was little room for discussion nor deliberation, and Loghain had never been a particularly talkative lover in the first place. Perhaps, if he had spurned her advances, she would have swallowed her pride and retreated, but there was something in the determination of her gaze, the set of her jaw, that told him that she needed this.

Perhaps it made her feel better, more powerful, to put a fallen hero in his place. Perhaps she was simply grateful to have an outlet for her urges. Loghain was well-acquainted with how a warrior’s bloodlust intermingled with more base, carnal desires. He couldn’t fault her for finding whatever mechanisms she needed to cope with the horrors that she had seen, and those that were yet to come.

Better this than the drink, he supposed.

Without commentary, she straddled his thighs, and he felt his cock stir in response to her proximity. It should be shameful, really, how readily his body responded to this young woman, a woman younger than his own daughter. But there were far more serious choices he had made of which he was ashamed, so he would not self-flagellate himself unnecessarily for a natural bodily reaction.

It was just that he thought she deserved better than the attentions of a lecherous old man, but on the other hand, she was the one who kept entering his tent.

She rolled her hips against his clothed erection, and he couldn’t help the hiss of air that escaped the back of his throat at the contact. Spurred on by the noise he’d made, she repeated the motions, back and forth, up and down, until he was sure there was a damp spot on the front of his smallclothes. It was then and only then that he reached out with a hand and encircled her wrist with his fingers. This gesture only served to remind him of how small she was compared to him. She was no blushing maiden unfamiliar with the art of swordplay, but in the dark of the night, it was difficult to overlook the frailty buried beneath her strength.

He did not speak, for he did not need to do so. His intentions were clear enough: _stop_ , _if you don’t want me to come in my pants_. She stilled atop of him, hips unmoving as her free hand shifted to undo the laces of his breeches. Releasing her wrist, he allowed her to expose his erection to the cool night air.

There was no foreplay. There never was. In any case, she never seemed to need it. Instead, she slid herself down on his cock wordlessly, and begun fucking herself with wild abandon atop of him, like he didn’t even need to be there at all.

Just like he had come to expect from their previous encounters, it was not long before Cousland began to cry. It was not the wail of a babe in want of its mother, or the scream of a man fighting to save his wounded lover, but a more sedate, long-suffering sadness, one that had been carried a long way, one that threatened to drown. He could feel the damp of her tears as she pressed their foreheads together in her exertion, and he rubbed a thumb against her scrunched-up eyelids, as though wiping her sadness away.

He didn’t know what to do in this situation, not precisely, but he could be whatever she wanted. Whatever she needed. There was no small part of him that was cognisant of the fact he held at least some responsibility for what had happened to her, and if this was how he would take his penance… well, there were punishments far worse than sex with a beautiful woman.

It was around this time, like always, that she leaned in further, moulding her lips to his, tongue exploring his mouth as though she might find the resolution to the world’s suffering within it. She was not gentle. Sometimes, there were teeth. But Loghain bore it, and his hands found the swell of her hips and settled there as though that was where they belonged. 

When he was close, she broke the kiss. This too was routine. She liked to look him in the eyes when he came, as though she was judging him for his sins. He would wonder what her verdict was, but there was hardly any ambiguity in the matter.

He was guilty, and all of Ferelden knew it.

On the brink of climax, words burst out of him, like the water of dam overcoming the walls that had been built to keep it in. “Fucking me won’t bring your family back,” he growled before he could quite stop himself. In that moment, it was like he was outside himself, watching Cousland writhe on him from above. This had never happened before.

Two things then happened in very quick succession. Something solid collided hard into his face, a wave of pain accompanied by the crunching of bone, and he spilled his seed into Cousland, his traitorous cock uncaring about his misstep, his projection, his now broken nose.

“Don’t you _ever_ dare presume to talk about my family,” Cousland hissed, and he knew there were no words that could be said to placate her, so instead he fell silent, feeling he had caused enough trouble by talking as it was. She extricated herself from his now softening cock, pulled down her shift and stormed out of the tent with nothing more to say. He couldn’t fault her for that, could not even fault for the bruising and swelling that was sure to greet him in the morning.

It would be reasonable to rise and administer some sort of potion or salve to his injuries, but he found he was tired, very tired, and it was not too difficult to fall asleep without it.

*

In the morning, they continued their march towards Redcliffe, something which filled Loghain with equal parts purpose and dread. One way or another, they would finish this, and they would either succeed or not live long enough to tell the tale.

His travelling companions were even frostier to him than usual, which was impressive considering they had hardly warmed up to him in the first place. It was like everyone knew what had transpired in their commander’s tent last night, although Loghain highly doubted Cousland had been the one to tell them. Wynne, always happy to provide healing after the rough-and-tumble of battle, didn’t even remark upon his nose.

The worst part was how Dog responded, however. Cousland’s unimaginatively named hound barely looked at him at all, even turning up his nose at the scraps of cured meat Loghain tried to feed him at breakfast.

There was a silver lining, at least. Eamon had been wrong when he had proclaimed that the mabari’s allegiance could be won over with a leftover hambone. It was this little victory that would tide him over until they finished their journey. What did it matter if anyone ever talked to him at all?

*

The darkspawn always seemed to be one step ahead of them; it was difficult for even Loghain to predict the movements of a mindless adversary, one with motives different from any other army he had ever known. But what he _could_ recognise was a final push, a stand, a make-or-break moment. That was what would await them in Denerim when they reached the capital, and when the time came, a Grey Warden would be required to slay the archdemon.

He had suspected as much. What other purpose did this Order have, why else would they drink the tainted blood, if not to bind themselves inexplicably, irrevocably, to the darkspawn? Should it come down to it, Loghain had no qualms about laying down his life for his country. He had long since believed he would die in service to Ferelden.

It was just a pity he had lived long enough to make some regrettable decisions in the interim.

He had never been able to sleep well on the eve of battle, his mind always plotting and planning even if that wasn’t his role in the company he now kept. Removed from the responsibility of orchestrating the placement of armies, his mind travelled to more trivial matters: how uncomfortably Eamon moved in his armour, how he could earn Dog’s trust again, and just what, exactly, the swamp witch had been doing dawdling in front of Cousland’s room.

This thought was at the forefront of his mind when Cousland marched into his quarters without so much as a knock or a please or a thank you. His eyebrows rose despite himself: considering what had transpired between them last night, he had hardly expected her to visit him ever again. He asked after Morrigan’s intentions but his question appeared to fall on deaf ears as she squared her jaw in her usual determination and said, “Loghain. We need to talk.”

He folded his hands in front of him, one on top of the other as he considered what she might have to say. It shouldn’t matter, _didn’t_ matter, but all the same something constricted in his chest like it did when he thought of Maric, or of Celia, or of Rowan.

 _Rowan_. He hadn’t thought of her in years. It had been such a long time ago.

“I find,” he answered slowly, “that the direct approach usually works best.”

He could see her considering it, some sort of internal conflict playing out across her brow. But then she swallowed, and he found himself watching the column of her neck more closely than he should.

For the first time, she ducked her head, averting her gaze. “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.

Before he could quite help himself, he reached out and cupped her chin with one hand, gauntleted fingers tilting her face upwards, like he couldn’t quite bear looking at her when she held herself at the wrong angle.

He expected her to stop him. Maker knew she _could_ stop him if she wanted to. His nose twinged insistently as though to remind him of that fact. But instead, she stood on the tips of her toes, leaning in to kiss him with a surprising amount of softness, and none of her usual urgency. Everything was occurring outside of their usual order, but he could not find it in himself to complain.

As she steered him back towards the bed, fingers struggling to find the buckles in his armour, he got the distinct impression that whatever transpired between them this evening was something she intended to savour.

This moment would not be obscured by the enormity of grief. No. This would be, plain and simple, a celebration of being alive.

*

On the way to Denerim, Wynne fixed his nose. He didn’t stop to wonder if it was because she knew that he and Cousland had made up, after a fashion, or if she simply wanted him to be in peak fighting condition for the battle to come. It didn’t matter, for he was grateful all the same. He even told the old mage that himself, which earned him a rare smile. _I don’t believe,_ she said, _that I’ve ever heard you say thank you._

The size of the horde was, and there was no other word for it, _monstrous_ , but there was no way forward but to persevere. Loghain has fought against such low odds in service to Ferelden before, and he would do it again, and again, as many times as was necessary for the sake of his country.

He would die, if he needed to, and better him than Cousland, who was so young, who had so much life left to live. Surely, she knew that too, just another one of their unspoken agreements. So certain Loghain had been that they were on the same page that he never even questioned his own assumptions until the final push into Denerim, when Cousland decided to leave him at the city gates.

The implications were clear.

She intended to die.

“There is nothing I can say that would dissuade you,” he observed, unable to keep the rough edge out of his voice.

Cousland smiled, sharp and tight, although Loghain was pleased to note that she held his gaze. “No easy way out for you, Loghain.”

He found himself returning the smile, suffused with a strange flush of endearment for this fellow Grey Warden, a one-time enemy now akin to something almost like a friend. “No. No easy way out for me.”

*

Above the cacophony of steel on steel, of swords rending flesh, there was the scream of a dying creature and then Loghain saw it: a beam of blinding light, illuminating the battlefield like the most unholy of magics. He knew, in that moment, that it had been done. The archdemon was no more, Ferelden had been saved, and Cousland… and Cousland…

He would not allow himself to dwell upon what could not be helped. He could only do what he could to clear the path to allow the forward party an easy return towards the city proper. The darkspawn had lost their cohesion after the demise of their leader. Many of them were even retreating, perhaps back to the Deep Roads, to await another awakening.

Loghain busied himself with the mundane nature of the task, not allow himself to think more complicated thoughts until he saw Wynne and Zevran and Sten on the horizon.

Between them, they carried a corpse.

He threw himself into his motions, not that the stragglers needed to feel the full brunt of his blows to be cut down. But it made him feel better, and that would do for now. It would have to do.

“Loghain,” Wynne called out to him, but he had half a mind to ignore her, to focus on his task, but then she shouted his name again, and Loghain forced himself to look at them, really look at them.

It was only then that he noticed that Cousland was struggling to sit upright. Her face was deathly pale, but it was enough. She was alive. Everything else around him seemed to blur. Legs moved without instruction, racing to be by her side. If his companions found his actions odd, they did not remark upon it.

Hands cradling her stomach, she managed to lift her chin to fix him with her gaze. The gesture was so familiar he wished he were the one who was cradling her in his arms instead. “I was with child,” she explained simply. “And I think it saved me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains an instance of a (magically-induced) miscarriage.


End file.
